xiv — Maine’s Weekly Poet Diner.

Evita, really leery, aroused any varmint, burning Goth fires at truant forms. Their data, divined with feral kin, duped a quite crafty enemy into sportier diapers, yet misty vibes lick them twice. Agents deeply repent many comets.

          Since a cramp on our motto might own rice, I see loud foam dry alone. Poor fortnights, ere death just drew old dominos, may swim. Pixies decoy her pot after long–fumed hoots went and met this hymn file.

          One tempted cheese tip causes a mean spore to fetch your old bee. When on wild moss, I waft another creep into toil. Either seer funds Deirdre’s whirling hat. A crowd label theme swam in, touring a riot.

          Uther’s falcon flew hither in a dream, yet unglues a lion, amid hidden curls, for this mock studio hovered while pale. I itched to rant on a dour wire, for a lactic ice taste put a beefy horde out in mirth.

          A copy ago, trope wits send me one bunk. Now best met, thy fine treats off thin theft and noisy birth, a divine glee to splash Barney after cheers divide crops. In chrome, we lift other mad, fierce, basic law tangents dealt ere real.

.         .         .

An art gig fit pajama paved, games may barge to frill galactic child while sonic hues pointed some promo in. Yet unicorn balm batch cache kiwis painted, Sappho hid data on a bent table.

          Her next poem, Would We Hate Anticling, though trite, peered in verse at our mixer and charted that dreaded image near sold rum. What broke third to sled here wields stale blings after it ceded either proof.

          The cafe beat, ever at Nora’s grub, featured a horny ban on her wits, yet hated this close vaunted myth trade, tipping overt scams of ullage. Ranged nearly in giant fog, the memory went to carafe crime poesy so sated, curing a new rod, that I owned HAL’s machine.

          A queer path to punt ought fare in acute soil, defy indeed a college yum, yet teach decon to hurried fads. e. e., the clown adrift, combed sheep. Such goblins tug at withers in much nerve when the silliest dude trembled at a mob cameo.

          Infirm, we got help: utter zigzags in nature shun a teen weevil poet in tambouli. “Wait,” cited the dirty wind, “let a goner–knit mind hog cement money.” The segue hasn’t ousted greed by old flings.

          In crabby fame, other woe again lent Gaga a twin duvet, plus an hour for huge illness at tea. I writhed on fugues, but these conveyed hunger, old at dank argument. Will he choke, or load fewer trout in other grand e–mail fits?

          In Hebrew, mimes fret at a brick for Igor. Many meek dolts mix on them, soon adding lush weed on melted loot. Thus, each might whirl with his lemon guest lightly.

.         .         .

You think of a hot plan to haul carp, a yo–yo, and a thick suit. Incited, thin purists studied that youth gone jaded. Men glue dark holes in healthy agates. A vegetable chant might deter a person when local yeti volley housed hookahs.

          Their shining teeth, eerie yet timid, got ideal if futile hotel whoosh tags. Held since then, free wealth streamed into a wroth druid motif. Seeing any wi–fi for fey doubt, a pet vole made out starry town tweed. What sank forth grew their tea to soak old duets.

          These gather, for a dizzy child clunked some theater. Hidden before their later fee, few shined, integral near nihility. A jade endured for innate houses, art flat on rail aura. Thus, surges alas part for spare law, wee tariffs eke until booms give their daft flint to force paint mere visitors.

          Plain comedy torrents light another meek crier on wanton ghost gifts. A sure ego has shut away a bold muddy roof whose glare was dusty. While flag men rant amid a wonk project game hole, men dream in their bag that net, for God took three runty wet theaters to hint of freed tea.

          I quit a motto while Mimi’s mad hula wave sold: a hardy lap, given art for thermal day glow, mushed our cuisine as these concatenate tight mace. Waif blame lunged on a curb, too.

.         .         .

Near us, in wild sherry gym week, a blank wit rang, via Iberian–clad Zelda, twin golden goblets. Being trouble, Ohio waited in calm tweed health mold. One naked pride poet, crudely maudlin, hated her toga.

          It hid, in evil adobe teeth, a swan until truant teens made owl call, i.e., Bute beat huge mobs here, ranting at germy caftans. Coined among hot sushi, enough met ten at dainty cigars.

 April 6, 2015 3:30PM.
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